


Fur

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Arty enough to irritate, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Light Bondage, M/M, Post-Series, Rough Sex, The dreadful second person point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you are</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fur

**Author's Note:**

> I am not involved in the production of Twin Peaks, and this school is not involved in the production of Twin Peaks. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

You don't sleep, so there's no one to wake up when the call comes. You've never slept, going back into the gray-black tunnel of childhood. Your mother told you to count until you fell asleep, but you'd just keep going, intent on getting to the next number. One step closer to infinity. Which, when you thought about it, made you feel like you were drowning. You tried to imagine what it would be like to fall into infinity, until it swallowed you. Inevitably leading you to think about what it was like to be dead. Even then, you had no conception of something afterwards, just blinking out like a spent light bulb. You'd run into her room, she was still up, reading, half crying, half gasping that you didn't want to die. She'd say that you couldn't help dying, that it happened to everyone, but it wasn't going to happen to you for a long time. Death was for old people. Death was always other people.  
You're not sleeping, so you can't be put out about the hour.  
“Albert.” It's Harry. It's going to be bad news, so you can be unhappy about that, instead.  
“Considering the hour, I can't imagine that this is a social call. What happened to Cooper?”  
“There was...” Harry searching for the right costume to shove the horror into so that it looks like someone else, “an accident.”  
“Earle got to him.”  
He can practically hear Harry shake his head. “Earle's dead. It was something else. Cooper's okay, now, but I think you should come back.”  
“I'll be on the next flight.” You hang up.  
An accident. Could it be something as simple as an automobile collision? It has to happen sometime, even in a place like Twin Peaks. Even with whatever else they have in that place, like a bathroom floor hell's toilet is overflowing onto, people have to get hurt in the usual ways.  
It's not that. It's not a car accident. That's stupid, and you're stupid for thinking it. Sometimes, the extreme possibility is the only possibility. Like reality's a water main that can just be shut off. So you're left holding your hands under the tap, waiting to feel something that doesn't come. Waiting for it with such conviction that you can almost feel it. But there's nothing there, and you're going to stay dry.

At the airport, Harry's waiting. You're disgusted by your relief at seeing him. It's asinine to take the time to meet you. Twin Peaks might be a kid's popsicle stick model come to life, but it still needs the sheriff. You frown. One of the deputies seemed to know what he was doing. And they'll always have Andy to get cats out of trees.  
That's the fire department.  
At least Harry doesn't have a sign.  
“You have any bags?”  
“Just the carry-on.” You stick a cigarette between your lips, but you don't light it. The only seats available were in non-smoking. You're so wound-up from lack of nicotine, you could vibrate. Not immediately giving in to desire makes it more acute, a thing that whines as though trying to sing. You put your hand on Harry's arm, and lead him, though you have no idea where you're going.  
“This is the wrong way,” he says, finally. You thought so. You stop to light your cigarette, and then you let him lead you. It's almost the time it was when you left Philadelphia. The sun's just coming up.  
“What happened to Cooper?” you ask outside.  
“He and Earle had a confrontation.”  
“He killed Earle.” It's not a question.  
“It doesn't look like he did.”  
“'Doesn't look like'? Harry, don't bullshit me. He killed Earle.” You don't know why you want this to be true. But it's beyond wanting; you know it happened.  
Harry shakes his head. “It looks like Earle died of natural causes. He wasn't shot, and there were no other wounds or marks on the body.”  
“This sound assessment was no doubt delivered to you by the town coroner, who probably moonlights as the dog catcher. I want to see the autopsy report.”  
“There's been no autopsy, just an examination.”  
“I'll do it, then.”  
“I knew you'd want to.”  
You get into the car. You don't ask if you can smoke; you just light another one. Harry rolls down his window.  
“What about Cooper's accident?”  
“Afterwards, after going after Earle, he was fine. Doc Hayward checked him out, found some cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. Later, though, in the hotel, Cooper injured himself.”  
You don't like that, “injured himself.” You know exactly what that means. “How did he do it? Cut his wrist?”  
“No. It's not like that. He says he tripped, and hit his head on the bathroom mirror.”  
“But he's lying.”  
“I didn't say that.”  
You suck the smoke in deep. You think you could hold it forever. “You didn't have to. If he'd slipped on a bath mat, you wouldn't have called me at two in the morning, and had me come all the way back here. How serious is the injury?”  
“Superficial. He bled like a stuck pig, but there was no fracture to the skull. They said they wanted to keep him for observation, just in case it was a concussion, but that was just being careful.”  
“Again, what happened to him that necessitated my flying across the country?”  
“It's weird.”  
“Great. It's Cooper, and it's weird- must be Tuesday.”  
“I can't explain it.”  
“Well, try.”  
“People in the room next door said they heard voices, as well as the sound of breaking glass.”  
“Another person in the room.”  
“But by the time the hotel sent someone up to look in on him, there was no one there.”  
“This would be the same hotel where Cooper was shot, and lay on the floor bleeding while Father Time's older brother walked to the police station to tell you about it in person? Color me shocked. There was another person in the room, they attacked Cooper, and got away while Jacob Marley gathered up all the other ghosts.”  
“Why not tell us, then?”  
“He'd just had his brains scrambled, for Christ's sake. They had to rule out a concussion, never mind whatever else the town quack was too dumb to catch the first time.”  
“I can't get past that, Albert. Cooper would tell us.”  
“Fine. It's an ambiguous situation. Barring an intruder, the only possibility left is that Cooper either tripped, like he said, or that he did it to himself. Intentionally.”  
Harry says nothing. You don't like that.  
“What aren't you telling me?” you snap. Trying to sound angry, but only succeeding in sounding nervous.  
“The place that Cooper followed Earle into, it's in the woods.”  
You feel a chill. You don't like that, either. “And?”  
“Lots of strange things happen in the woods.”  
“Is there anywhere in this God-forsaken place where strange things don't happen?”  
Harry doesn't answer. He needs to say something.  
“Say something.”  
“I've said everything I needed to. I'm taking you to the morgue.”  
You don't even think to ask why he's not taking you to Cooper first. You're too relieved to be going someplace where things make sense. You need things to make sense. You hate how much you need it. You hate, you hate, you hate--  
“We're here.”  
“Thanks.” You say it like you don't mean it.  
He has to know. “I'll pick you up later,” he offers, “Take you to the Great Northern, so you can check in.”  
“Thank you.”  
“All right. I'll see you later.”  
You go in. You get turned around. A little nurse takes you all the way to the morgue, herself, like you'd just get lost again if she gave you directions. You hate this place.  
When you get down there, you say, “Who do I have to blow to get a corpse around here?” knowing full well that this won't help. The morgue attendant slumps over and tells you that that kind of language isn't appreciated, and he will call security. You flash your credentials, and tell him to call the sheriff if he doesn't like your choice of idiomatic expressions.  
“Decedent's name,” he says tightly.  
“Windom Earle. That's W-I-N-D-O-M E-A-R-L-E.”  
He finds your man, asks you if you need anything else. You know your way around an autopsy suite, thank you. The attendant mutters something and gets out of your way. You look at Earle. You feel nothing. You make your remarks for the recording. You open him up. You groan into the empty room. Now, what the hell is this?

Harry's upstairs waiting for you when you're done. How long has he been there? Doesn't he have work to do? It just deepens your suspicion that Twin Peaks is only one major crisis away from being scratched off of the face of the earth.  
“Don't you have anything better to do than to hang around hospitals?”  
Harry smiles. “As it happens, no.”  
“You came here to see him.”  
“He's sleeping. The nurse wouldn't let me in.”  
“Has he been doing that a lot? Have they fully ruled out concussion?”  
“The doctor's still waiting for some test results.”  
“Does everything happen here at half normal speed?”  
“Albert, calm down.” He puts his hand on your arm. You look at it, and he moves it away. You're not sure you wanted him to do that.  
“Windom Earle was cooked, from the inside out,” you say.  
“What?”  
“It was as though he'd been exposed to extremely high temperatures through some sort of...” you cast about for a way to explain it that both satisfies you and makes sense to Harry, “internal exothermic reaction. Yet, there was no scarring or other damage to suggest that he was fed something hot, or even corrosive.”  
“That doesn't make any sense.”  
“Congratulations on summing up hours of scientific research in one pithy statement. No, it doesn't make sense. I've collected some samples. I'm sending them back to Philadelphia, because I'd like to see the results sometime before next July.”  
“What else can I do for you?”  
“Take me to see Cooper.”  
“Albert, they won't even let me in.”  
“They'll let me in.”  
Harry sighs, but he doesn't try to stop you. He gives you the floor and the room number, and accompanies you silently on your way up.  
The nurse gets as far as an alarmed exclamation of “Sir!-” before you tell her to back off, that you're a federal agent. You demand to see the doctor. That'll give her something productive to do with her outrage. In his room, Dale's asleep. The only color to him is his hair, and even that's partially covered by a bandage, leaving only incongruous shapes of black against a ground of white. The white of the bandage bleeding into his white skin, bleeding into the white hospital gown, bleeding onto white sheets. You look at his chart, but it's not illuminating.  
“The doctor's busy,” the nurse whisper-hisses at you, “You have to leave.”  
You're not going to be the one who wakes Dale up, so you let her hustle you out of the room. Once you're in the hallway, she blocks the way into Dale's room with her body. “I'm going to be staying at the Great Northern, under Rosenfield. R-O-S-E-N-F-I-E-L-D,” you spell it without even thinking, “Albert. If there's any change in his condition, if he wakes up, if he gets out of bed, if he doesn't like the Jell-o, you call me. The man in that bed is an FBI agent, and I'm going to be expected to apprise his superiors and mine of his condition. I want the results of those tests the doctor's ordered, too. If you have a problem with any of this, you can call this number,” he gives her his card, which she holds in both hands as though it might fly away, “and speak to Gordon Cole. C-O-L-E.”  
She nods solemnly, and you turn on your heel and go.  
“I took your bag to the hotel,” says Harry. You'd forgotten that you left it in his car. “And I took the liberty of checking you in.”  
“Thank you.”  
“I'll take you over there, now. You can freshen up, have dinner.”  
Outside, it's dark. It makes Albert think of walking into a movie theater in the afternoon and walking out in the evening. How did he lose the whole day? Is it inside of Earle, now, shoved into his thoracic cavity, in a plastic bag with his intestines?  
“Is there anywhere in this land that time forgot where you can get a drink?” You know there is. That saloon. The Lonely Shitkicker, or something.  
“Yeah, Albert, believe it or not, there is.”  
“Take me there.”  
“I don't think you should be drinking, feeling the way you feel.”  
“Oh, and how do I feel, Sheriff Truman?”  
“Like starting something.”  
One could argue that you feel that way most of the time. You're not going to argue with Harry. You're suddenly tired, too tired to sleep, or sit, or do anything but feel the world drift around you like you're underwater. “Take me to a liquor store. I'll buy something, and take it up to my room.”  
“All right.”  
Your mother drank vodka tonics and bloody Marys. Your father only drank on holidays, whatever everyone else was drinking. Still, liquor bottles remind you of him. Probably because they remind you of her, the life they had together. Parties and bridge nights. How the ordinary seems cosmopolitan to a child; adults' lives so well-ordered, compared to the chaos and constant terror of being young. You let a bottle of vodka slip into your hand. It comes from Poland. Like her ancestors. Why are you thinking about her? You don't think about her. Not because you hate her, but because she's dead. The dead pass out of this world, leaving only memories and bodies. Once you do the post mortem on both, there's nothing left to do but put them someplace where you don't have to look at them anymore.  
If you were a different kind of person, you'd wheedle, feign emotional disturbance, ask for this as though you were asking for help. You can't do that, though. “Come to my room with me,” you say to Harry.  
For a second, his face is blank, and you say to yourself, I broke him. Then, he surprises you. “Why?” he asks.  
It's a difficult question to answer. Because you just don't know. “I don't know.”  
“You're not lonely,” he says, almost like he's daring you to say that you are.  
“No,” you have to admit, “I'm not.” If you were, it might make it easier. That's something people understand. They might pretend that it makes them sick, but they understand it. “You know him, too,” is the closest you can come to expressing, to even identifying, what you're feeling.  
Harry nods. “I do. I do know him, too.”  
You're hoping one of the locals will give you a look, make a comment, but none of them do. Someone says hello to Harry, and he says Hello back. Maybe they just don't see you. Why do you want to be seen? Why do you want to be remarked upon?  
Harry leads you to the room he got for you. You don't ask if it's a smoking room. You light a cigarette and take off your jacket. Let him think what he wants about this. You roll up your sleeves, like you're going to do something that requires a lot of energy and freedom of movement. The clumsy suggestiveness of your actions makes you want to laugh. You pour him a drink, and yourself, a bigger one.  
“To your health,” he says.  
“To yours.” You voice sounds like someone else's. The thought makes you shudder. You don't want to know why.  
You pour him another drink. Even feeling like this, you can only sip yours. But how do you feel?  
“Anyone would think you were trying to get me drunk, Albert.” There's no color to the statement; it's just fact.  
“That's because I am.”  
“And then what?”  
“It's not queer if you don't remember it in the morning.”  
Harry laughs. “No, Albert. I don't take advantage of people when they're under the influence.”  
You put down your glass. “Take advantage of me, now. I doubt I'm even over the legal limit.”  
Now, he sets aside his glass. “What I mean is, you're not in any fit state to be doing what you're proposing we do.”  
“Maybe that's why I need to do it.” You pick up your drink again. Something's going to get you out of your head. It might as well be this. You finish it.  
“Albert-”  
“If you're not interested, just say so.” It hadn't even occurred to you until this moment. You've been inside your own head too long. You often forget that not everyone feels the same things you do.  
“I didn't say that I wasn't interested.”  
You hate the space in which your heartbeat accelerates.  
You kiss him. You have to. Or else you'll be here all night, being slowly smothered by his earnestness and good intentions. You'd rather just be slapped or told to sleep it off than keep doing this damn high school slow dance.  
Some men are full of violence, whether they mean it or not. There's no softness to Harry, no matter how gently he tries to handle you. Under the well-mannered propriety is exactly what you felt the first time you met him. You could be squeamish and call it “passion”, but you know violence when you see it. When you feel it. His hands on you are hard, hungry; touching you like he's molding you out of clay, struggling to keep you together. You feel like that, too. Like you could open up and what's inside of you could tumble out onto the floor. You think of Windom Earle, burnt from the inside, like he just succumbed to the rabid heat of his own madness. Finally, his body could no longer contain it.  
You're hanging onto Harry, like you can't support your own weight. You're not even drunk. You just can't go on. It's a relief to lie down. He yanks off your tie, and you pull him back down, kiss him again. You push him, so that he'll have to push you back. You bite his lip. He bites your neck. You put your hands on his ass. He holds your hands over your head. You can't stop yourself from gasping.  
“That's what you like.” He says it like he didn't know.  
“If you couldn't guess,” you swallow, “you wouldn't have tried that.”  
“I thought-” He has the nerve to look sheepish.  
“People are always less complicated than they think they are,” you murmur. Your arms are losing circulation, filling with that weird, slack coldness. Your fingertips tingle. His weight on top of you is the first real thing you've felt today. You want more. More of him. You want him crushing the breath out of you. You want him crushing you right out of existence. He could drop you into infinity and leave you to drown. “You can tie me up.”  
This time, he doesn't try to convince you that he's surprised. He unbuttons your shirt, pulls up your undershirt, kisses you everywhere, paints your body with his breath, you bending to his motion. You let him put your hands up against the headboard.  
“Like that?” he asks.  
“Yeah, like that.” You're thinking of something. You don't want to think about it. You want it crushed right out of existence. “Like that,” you say again. Your voice doesn't sound like your voice. Crushed.  
You don't have to do anything, now. It's like it's over. Though, of course, nothing's actually happened, yet.  
He likes you like this. He stills. Stops fighting you, because you're not fighting him. You let him kiss you long and soft. It's like you're underwater. He's on top of you and all around you. He's soft, but he's crushing you. Your fingertips tingle. He has his hand between your legs, touching you through your pants. It's you, but it's not you. You want it, but you didn't tell him to do it. You push up, against his hand. “What do you want?” he asks.  
You can't say, because you don't know. You don't know, because he hasn't told you. You can't explain that to him, that it has to be what he wants. That what you want is to know what he wants from you. “Kiss me,” you say, because it's an answer. It's not the right answer, though. Are you betraying yourself by refusing to give something away? Is it less yours for keeping it to yourself?  
“Take off your shirt,” you tell him. He does. When he's again against you, you're suddenly aware of his heartbeat, his breathing, as though it's only in this moment that he has a body. You want to touch him, but you can't, which makes the feeling realer, like watching something come into focus. Showing you too much, now. You can't breathe. You're drowning. You struggle as you want it.  
“Touch me,” you tell him, add, “Kiss me while you do it.” You don't want him looking at you. Something is less real if it's observed. The only pure reality is within, where it's always dark. You think of something. You think of something, and make yourself not think about it. You close your eyes, and you can only feel what he's doing to you, not see it.  
You want him to hurt you. To pluck you from your body, and slam you down deeper into it. So you could never escape. You want him to make you a body. To take you from this mind.  
“Hurt me.”  
“Hurt you, how?” he asks. But the voice is all breath. He'll do it. You can feel it. In the way he doesn't move his mouth from your neck, his hand from your balls.  
“Well, use your imagination, Harry.”  
He drags his fingernails down your side. The pain blooms belatedly, rich, rusty, making you twist away from it, back into it. He pulls down your pants, bites you low on your belly. You feel yourself moan, twist again. He holds you down, which makes you move with greater urgency, trying to get away from him so that he'll hold you harder. He goes down on you, fingers digging into your hips. You come like taking a breath after being stifled. Your body aches with relief.  
He unties your hands; kisses you, pressing you down, into the bed, down, beneath the ocean. Making you invisible, making you nothing. He holds you, and rubs against you. You let him fuck your hand, and then your mouth. Your lips feel bruised. There's no part of you that doesn't hurt, and the hurt builds into hunger. You want more of him, though there's nothing more of him that you could have. You take him deep. His hands are on your face. You swallow.  
He wants to see you naked. It seems stupid, redundant, sentimental, but you let him. You stand in front of him and smoke a cigarette. You drink vodka, from the bottle. You kiss him, and let him taste. He sucks your tongue and caresses your throat. You leave your cigarette in the ashtray, and let him roll you onto your back. His dick is still wet. You hold his hips against yours. Drown you. Drown you. Take you down.  
You kiss the hands that hurt you. He puts his fingers in your mouth. You show him your throat, and he bites you. He could break the skin. Rupture you like a membrane. You could spill out, like Windom Earle's plastic-bagged guts, and all of the other things you want desperately not to think about. You're thinking of something. No, you're not. You open your mouth. You can feel your tongue press against the backs of your front teeth. You want to make the sound. Let your tongue click down, then up again, and out. The word's forming in your throat. You're not going to say it.  
You say it. Your skin feels like cigarette paper against the lighter's bloom. You shut your eyes in disgust.  
Harry kisses the corner of your mouth, looks down at you. There's such horrible understanding in his eyes, when he says, “I know.” You want to hate him. You can't.  
You try. You do.  
No, you don't.


End file.
